Chain Reaction
by TheFauxMe
Summary: Sam's having a bad day. Then there's Blaine. Pre-established, AU, OOC. Blam.


**A/N - So, I sat down to write more for Brand New Ground and, instead, this one shot came out. It's obviously an established relationship fic, you don't really need much of a timeline because it's AU and OOC and fluffy to boot. It doesn't really have a plot, but it's BLAM and that's all that matters, right?**

**And it's a gift for Loki Firefox.**

**Lok, I hope this brightens your day.**

**I know I never write in second person, but this just wouldn't leave me alone until I did.**

**Title comes from John Farnham's song of the same name. **

**Particularly for the lyrics:**

_One man to start the trouble_  
_One kiss to seal your fate_  
_One kid that needs some action_  
_One link in a chain reaction_

**So good. Go listen. After you read and review.**

* * *

You walk into your empty apartment with a disappointed sigh, throwing your backpack into the nearest chair and wincing at the sound it makes as it lands. It's been a shitty day; your feet throb, your back aches and your head pounds.

Nothing went right for you from the start. Your alarm didn't go off (turns out you set it for 5pm and not 5am) and you skipped your morning coffee to try and get to work on time. That plan failed spectacularly because traffic wanted to work against you the entire drive in, turning what's normally twenty minutes of travel into forty five minutes of pure torture, drumming your fingers impatiently on the dashboard and cursing out all the other drivers around you.

So when you finally did arrive to work, the adrenaline rush you'd been thriving on from waking up late had started to fade, you'd started in on the caffeine withdrawals and your boss had sneered -pointing at the clock for emphasis- that you were late. Your sarcastic retort ("No, really? Show me again where the big hand should be.") didn't earn you any favours and you found yourself relegated to the crappiest jobs that nobody ever wants to do.

You spent the entire day on your feet, chasing customers, cleaning up after them, scrubbing toilets and feeling worthless. Summer vacation shouldn't be like this. All of your friends are out living it up but you're stuck in a job you hate, working as much overtime as possible, all to help your parents keep the tiny apartment roof over your family's combined heads.

When you took your lunch break, you tried to talk to a couple of the others jovially, but ever since you accidentally came out of the closet the guys have been weird and the girls have stopped pandering to you, knowing they don't have a snowflake's chance in hell of calling you their hot blond boyfriend. So you cracked a few lame jokes to cover the awkward, cloying silence, but nobody laughed.

Feeling like nobody gets you hurt like hell.

You pulled out your phone to text someone who might actually make you smile, but your battery was, naturally, nixed. Gritting your teeth, you forced your way through the rest of the day, keeping your head down and ignoring your colleagues as best as you could. You knew that you should have been friendlier to the customers at least -your tips were suffering- but you just didn't have it in you to try.

You shake your head free of those thoughts. You're home, you're in one piece and you've still brought back a hefty wad of bills to help your Mom out with the power bill.

But you're alone in the apartment and that hurts more than you think it should. Normally, you'd be dying for some privacy and space from the constant noise that your two younger siblings generate, but right now, after the day you've had, you yearn for Stacey's bubbling giggle and Stevie's hilariously lousy impressions of Spongebob. You want your Mom to give you a hug and a kiss on the cheek while your Dad ruffles your hair, telling you how much they appreciate the sacrifices you're making for them. But it's late and nobody's here, which leads you to believe that they've all gone over to Grandpa's place and won't be back until the morning.

You sink down into the worn couch with a sigh, staring at the blank TV screen and feeling sorry for yourself until a knock at the door brings you out of your mindless zone out. You frown when you glance at the microwave clock on your way to answer it. It's really late now; who would be knocking at your door?

You fling the door open with more force than necessary, ignoring the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your Mom that says you should have looked through the peephole first, and blink a couple of times when you come face to face with a familiar pair of hazel eyes, which take your breath away like always.

"Um," you say, "Hi?"

Blaine sighs as he pushes past you and into the apartment. He looks around and, satisfied that you're alone and he's not going to be disturbing anyone, he turns his attention back to you, still standing in front of the now closed door. "Where have you been, Sam?" He asks, hands on his hips, frowning at you. He holds up his phone. "I've been calling you all day and it keeps going to voicemail. Are you ignoring me? Have I done something wrong?"

And this is it, the moment that breaks you, only instead of crying you find yourself laughing like a lunatic, the hilarity only escalating when your boyfriend scowls and folds his arms across his chest defensively. "I don't see how this is funny," he states, and his petulance only makes you laugh harder.

"No," you say, wiping at your eyes, trying to get an explanation out before he storms out of the apartment, "No. It's not. But it is."

Now he just looks confused. "What?"

"I've just had the worst day," you find yourself telling him, your good humour evaporating as suddenly as it came on, "Nothing's going right. Everything's a mess..." You pause, your lower lip quivering, "and now I'm quoting Avil Lavigne!"

Blaine looks torn between amusement and concern, "What's wrong with Avril?"

"What's wrong with...?" You shake your head. "B, you're lucky you're hot."

He smiles at you before frowning again. "But, seriously, what's happened? Why didn't you call me?"

"I woke up late, work sucks, my phone was dead..." And now you feel real tears stinging your sinuses, a lump lodging itself in your throat and you hate yourself for feeling so weak. So you try to clear your throat and force a smile. "It makes sense that I'd piss you off today, too, right?"

"Oh, Sam," he practically breathes your name and looks you over in concern. "You look exhausted." Before you can blink he's pulling you towards the couch and then you're sitting down in it with him right beside you, his arm around your shoulders. "You're working too hard."

You want to deny that, or at least tell him that it's not his place to say anything, but he's hugging you and it's so comforting and the last thing you want to do right now is argue with him when he's only trying to make you feel better and he's the only one around to do so.

Then it hits you.

He's the only other person in the apartment.

Suddenly, you're not quite as exhausted as you were two minutes ago (hey, you're an eighteen year old guy, it happens) and you're more than aware of the warmth of his skin against yours, the soothing motion of his hand down your back. You tilt your head towards him and he leans into your kiss with well-practiced ease.

You start off languid at first, sighing happily at the familiar taste of his tongue and the sensual warmth of his lingering cologne (it's a smooth fragrance and has subtle undertones of spiced vanilla which never fails to get you going), your hands carding through his soft, gel free curls. Then he's in your lap, straddling you, his muscular thighs pressing down on your own, and the kiss is becoming more heated with every passing second.

"I thought I was exhausted," you manage to tease when you come up for air, which is impressive because you're not usually able to manage more than the occasional grunt by this point.

Blaine rolls his eyes and leans down for another slow, teasing kiss, griding his hips just so. "Hmm," he says, right around the time you feel your eyes rolling back into their sockets, leaning back just enough so he can play with your belt buckle, "Maybe I should put you to bed?"

You nod vigorously. "Yeah," you agree, bringing a hand down to sneak up the front of his shirt, tracing featherlight patterns up and down his impressive abs, and back up to his pecs. You don't mind the coarse hairs, recalling idly how Blaine recently (drunkenly) offered to wax for you and you protested because a) waxing hurts like a bitch and b) you're surprisingly into the masculine, ruggedness of his torso.

He moans into your mouth and you grin, thinking that your day might have started out crap, but it was going to end spectacularly. "Maybe you should."

So he does.

When you wake up the next morning, cocooned in Blaine's arms, completely satiated but still raring to go again because it's Blaine and you're eighteen and your parents still aren't home, you decide to call in sick and enjoy being a normal teenager with his super hot boyfriend for a day, and it's possibly the best gift you have ever given yourself.


End file.
